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Poem	The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top Blood -- blood and torn grass -- Had marked the rise of his agony -- This lone hunter. The grey-green woods impassive Had watched the threshing of his limbs. A canoe with flashing paddle, A girl with soft searching eyes, A call: "John!" . . . . . Come, arise, hunter! Can you not hear? The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top.
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